


Concentration

by theconsultingtimehunter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Normal High School, Art, Artist!Sherlock, Boyfriends, Bullying, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, High School AU, Homophobia, M/M, POV Third Person, POV Third Person Limited, Underage as in they're both in high school, rugby!john
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-02-24 13:46:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2583542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theconsultingtimehunter/pseuds/theconsultingtimehunter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes has his art completely under control. He does the math and sticks to it, that is until he is forced to switch lockers and he meets his new neighbor.<br/>He's not in distracted.<br/>Just inspired.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Pas de Deux](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1956984) by [prettysailorsoldier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettysailorsoldier/pseuds/prettysailorsoldier). 



> So this was supposed to be a quick little one shot that I was going to write and finish in an hour and well it's been three days and I'm 12,000 words in so I thought I'd start posting bits while I finish it up. This has only been read by me so please forgive any mistakes. Let me know what you all think. I've really had a blast writing this one. 
> 
> Just a quick art terminology explanation: 
> 
> Breadth: A large body of work that shows your versatility as an artist. Can and should be on a wide range of topics and subjects and in many different mediums. There is no theme or anything that brings the pieces, each stands on its own. 
> 
> Concentration: A body of work that has a common theme or idea that brings the pieces together. Usually done in similar mediums with similar subjects. 
> 
> ~S

Sherlock was not normally adverse to changes in his day to day schedule. In fact, most of the time he was the first to celebrate it. This new development, however, was not so welcome. He grimaced as he made the long walk to his new locker. Apparently “breaking into” his neighbor’s locker was not acceptable, even if the oil paint experiment was incredibly important. No one seemed to really believe him when he said things like that though, waving him off like he was some child. Which debatably he was, although teenager would probably be a better word than child. 

He looked down at the slip of paper the administration had given him once more, a reflexive gesture more than a necessity. He’d memorized the number and code upon seeing it. He watched as the locker numbers continued their descent down, odds and evens on opposite walls. It was dull, predictable, not unlike most of his classes. At least he’d have a legitimate reason to be late from now on. He was more in the Year 13 section than his own Year 12 at this point.

Really he should have known better than to piss off the Dean’s son but he’d been banking on the fact that his son never seemed to be at his own locker, preferring to go out for a smoke between classes. It worked fairly well until the locker had exploded and he’d gotten gotten suspicious. Not as much of an oblivious, blundering idiot as he’d originally thought. Sherlock was the pretty clear culprit in the eyes of the school board, especially given the fact that he’d lost a bit of his temper when he realized his experiment was ruined. 

Sherlock grimaced coming to a stop in front of what was supposed to be his new locker. It was a dull gray like the rest of them with 221 etched in on the front. Maybe he’d just have to use his own locker for experiments from now on. 

Sherlock was halfway through loading his books and papers into the locker when a voice interrupted him.

“Hello. Are, uh, are you the new transfer, then?” Sherlock jumped in surprize hitting his head on the top of the locker and spilling papers onto the floor. 

“Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to spook you.” The student continued with a hint of amusement. Sherlock’s temper prickled. 

“You didn’t startle me.” He snapped.

“No. No, of course not, you just make a habit of dropping your books as greeting.”

“Well it usually gets people to either go away or carry them for me.” Sherlock replied scathingly over his shoulder. He bent down to pick up the books he’d dropped, trying to shuffle the loose papers back into some semblance of order.   
He didn’t go away though, instead moving forward as if to help Sherlock pick up his books and chuckling lightly. “Is that so?”

“Yes, well it obviously isn’t working too well-” Sherlock interrupted himself at first glance of the tanned hands that were helping to herd papers into a pile. They were calloused, rugby going by the placement of them. He quickly looked up and found himself looking at John Watson. Blue eyed, blond hair, charming, funny, straight-A John Watson that all the girls in Sherlock’s biology class were always giggling about. Sherlock watched him with something akin to shock.

“Here you are.” John said with a smile, handing Sherlock a pile of papers. They were out of order but Sherlock didn’t mention it, sliding them into the folds of whichever books his hands seemed to find at the moment. He straightened up abruptly, forcing his mind back into action.

“-at the moment.” He finished belatedly. “I mean,” He said trying to salvage, “It obviously isn’t working too well at the moment.” Damn.

John quirked an eyebrow at him, a small smile turning up the edge of his mouth but didn’t comment. “I’m John Watson.” 

“Sherlock Holmes.” 

“So-” John began. Alright, Sherlock thought, time get “fantastic, wonderful, and dreamy”, to quote the disappointing female populous of the school, to move on.

“No, I’m not a new transfer,” Sherlock interrupted, “Something you would know if you took any time to look. My locker has just been switched because apparently it’s ‘not on’ to use another student’s locker as a place to run experiments. Now if you don’t mind, I do have some unpacking to do.” He gave him a quick, manufactured smile and turned his back on him busying himself with his locker. 

“What do you mean by ‘look’?”

Fine hard way it was, “I’m mean see, really see, observe if you will.” He said whipping around. “For example, I can tell you’ve only been here since your 11th year. You play rugby and you’re quite good, that’s how you’re able to afford to come here, you’re on scholarship. You’re from a relatively low income house. Mother’s an alcoholic, sister on her way too which explains why, unlike all the rest of your ‘friends’,” He spat the word. “over by the door, you’re not hungover right now. You’re looking at university applications but your cynical about applying to any, as you should be. You’re good at rugby but not good enough to get a any money for it in that league. You want to be a doctor though which means furthering your education is necessary, which is why you spent all last night studying for a test you have today. You’re hoping for an academic scholarship.” Sherlock turned back to the locker, waiting for the usually accusations to fly. Freak, psychopathic, and stalker seemed to be the popular ones at the moment.

“I’m sorry, how did you do that?” Oh, that was a different tone. “That was amazing.” John continued slightly breathless.  
Sherlock froze in his movements. That was- That was almost, interesting.

“What?” He asked slowly turning around to face John again.

“What you did. That was fantastic.”

“Really?”

“Yes really! That was astonishing! How did you know all that?” 

“Your clothes. They’re worn but there’s no patches on them. You obviously haven’t grown anytime recently, unless you had been a truly unfortunate height before now, and you couldn’t have replaced them. Low income, you can tell by the state of your shoes. So therefor you haven’t been here more than three years as the uniform starts to rip after four years wear. Adversion to alcohol, as clarified by your friends, usually found with those who have close family members who drink, so mother or father then. Father’s out of the picture otherwise you’d be more confident about pursuing a scholarship in rugby, so mother. But, you didn’t just not get drunk, you avoid the alcohol all together which means you’re trying to set a good example for someone. For who? Your sister is the obvious choice. As for university, you’ve got some forms sticking out of your bag but only for St. Barts which means medicine but also that you’re not sure about whether or not you should be applying. You need a scholarship for college, dark circles under your eyse, and notes on biology tucked inside your French book means you’ve a test in biology and you’ve been studying for it intensely.” 

“Amazing.” He said grin spreading across his face.

“You do realize you’ve already said that.”

“Yes, sorry, but that’s fantastic.” 

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say.”

“‘Piss off’.” He said with a small smirk. John laughed and the warning bell for the next class rang. 

~*~

“How’d you know I had a sister not a brother?”

Sherlock muttered a small curse as a few of his papers slipped from his grasp, startled by John’s sudden appearance. Again.

“If you’re going to make a habit of dropping something everytime I talk to you,” John said with a small chuckle leaning down and grabbing the papers, “This could be very messy.” 

Sherlock snatched his papers back from John. His mouth opened, retort already formed but it didn’t come out. John was grinning, the edges of his eyes crinkled up in amusement. It was surprisingly distracting. Sherlock felt his chest tighten.

“It’s not intentional.” He muttered, sorting them back into some semblance of order. 

“So? How’d you know?”

“About what?”

“My sister.”

“Oh yes, that.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Heard some girls in my biology class mention a Harry Watson.” Sherlock grinned at the slightly disappointed look that flashed across John’s face. “Not everything can be clever, John.” What a wonderful world that would be.

“Oh well.” John said shrugging away his disappointment with a captivating ease. “So you know everything about me. What about you?”

“What about me?”

“We seeing as I can’t,” He paused trying to think of a word, “Deduct everything about you, I’ll need your assistance.”

“Interesting.”

“What?”

“Deduct, that’s a good word for it. I’ll have to file that away.” There was a long pause where Sherlock could feel John’s gaze on him. Sherlock looked up from his locker, curious. Instead of the closed off expression he expected on John’s face, John was looking at him with something closer to fascination. It made Sherlock’s chest swell and his breathing stutter. This was bridging into all sorts of captivating territory. He felt himself flush and immediately began searching for a cause, a reason. He wasn’t in danger, it wasn't hot, and he wasn’t, god forbid, embarrassed in any way. How odd.   
“  
What?” John asked. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Hm?” Sherlock said shook from his short revere. “Oh, thinking. What temperature do you think it is right now, John?” 

“I don’t know, probably around 19, 20 celsius. Why?” Sherlock filed away the whole situation to be considered later. He was obviously missing some important factors at the moment. He waved away John’s question and grabbed his chemistry book from his locker. Nodded to John once and walked off down the hallway. 

~*~

“Why are you always here?” Sherlock asked none too gentle. He’d whipped around as soon as he heard John’s distinct foot steps heading his way for the third day in a row. John came to a stop and laughed at him. He seemed to do that a lot.

“You know for a screaming genius, you’re pretty slow.” Sherlock held himself at his full height, clearly affronted by John’s statement, vaguely reminiscent of an insulted cat. “Sherlock, my locker is right next to yours.” He let loose a lopsided grin which made Sherlock very nervous for some unidentifiable reason. “Sorry, you won’t be getting rid of me anytime soon.” 

Sherlock nodded once and was only a few steps toward his next class before John’s voice called to him. Sherlock could not have, for all the world, told anyone why he stopped and went back to John who was pointing with interest at Sherlock’s odd shaped bag. 

“That’s knew. What’s in there, then?” He asked, leaning up against the lockers and a small part of Sherlock’s brain catalogued it as an aesthetically pleasing visual and saved it for future reference. 

Sherlock looked down at his own bag which housed a blank canvas, making it bulge strangely and was suddenly very uncomfortable. He knew how people generally reacted when he shared this tidbit with them. For some reason people seem determined to believe that his sexuality was some how linked to the fact that he painted. Not that the whole school didn’t think he was gay anyway but he’d like to keep the extra ammunition away from them. It didn’t matter that they were right, he got enough jibes as it was without announcing it to the school at large. Nervousness licked up the inside of his stomach and he became acutely aware of the fact that he rather enjoyed talking with John and didn’t want to drive him away. He’d be disappointed if he was to no longer see him in between classes. 

That single realization brought Sherlock’s mind to a screeching stop. This was not something- This was not how he was supposed to function. Sentiment was found in the losing side. It was found in the ordinary. It had no place inside his mind. It would cloud logic and confuse pathways. This was not something Sherlock wanted for himself. He didn’t do interpersonal connections. 

And yet there was John, who’d talked to him all of three times and laughed, but not like how the rest of the school did. No, John laughed at all the right moments and never maliciously. John asked questions, was interested in things. He wasn’t offended to have a stranger spell out his life and all of the nitty gritty details it was composed of and instead said that it was fantastic, that Sherlock was fantastic. 

"Sherlock?" John asked, standing up straight. His brows were wrinkled in confusion. "You alright?" His voice was remarkably soft. Sherlock couldn't think of the last time someone had spoken to him with such gentility. It made his chest ache. 

"Yes." He answered, hoping John would forget his first question.   
"Alright.” He said sceptically. “It's okay, you know. You don't have to tell me what's in there." He said as if he were reassuring a startled animal, blue eyes wide. Then a small grin slipped onto his face. "It's nothing dangerous though, yeah?" 

Sherlock let out a small snort, partially out of relief and and partially due to amusement. John chuckled.

“Alright, alright. I didn’t think so but I had to be sure. Couldn’t have you getting your locker switched again.” 

“You can have no worry about that, John. This place seems to be at least a little less dull than everywhere else.” He tried to make it sound bored but could feel a smile twitching just the very corners of his lips up. John grinned at him. “Oh don’t flatter yourself, John. It’s not an attractive look on you.” Sherlock said even as that same small part of his mind was filling the smile away for later. John laughed.

“Well it’s a good thing I don’t care your opinion on that, then.” The statement wasn’t malicious in the least, delivered all in a light, carefree manner but something in Sherlock stomach seemed to become displaced, uncomfortable. John was a confusing person. “What are you doing at lunch today?” John asked, unaware of Sherlock’s reaction. 

“I will be busy.” It was a true statement. He needed to get to work on his newest painting otherwise he’d be completely unprepared for the next city art show. He had an entire concentration to do, in addition to the last few pieces of his breadth. 

“No, that wasn’t what I was-” John huffed out a small laugh. “I was just making conversation, Sherlock.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked, brought up short. 

“Never mind.” John said with a smile. “I’ll see you later, Sherlock” 

Sherlock watched him walk down the hall. He seemed to know everyone he passed, smiling and saying hello with an ease Sherlock had to admit he envied. 

~*~

The piece wasn’t working. He stared at the half complete painting with something close to disgust. He’d done the math, the research. He knew which colors to put where, how to place the subject so that it complemented the background, and how to do the strokes for the optimal effect but it wasn’t working. 

Sherlock snarled throwing his towel to the side and stalked across the room. He whirled around, fixing the painting with a glare that would make any person shrink away. The math was correct so why wasn’t it working! He thundered closer, more and more flaws jumping out the closer he got. Everything was just a little bit off. The nose too high, the colors of the eye too dull, the skin too sallow. It was sickening. Sherlock shoved it aside, off the easel, headless of the still wet paint. At this rate he was never going finish in time. 

He sighed. Something was wrong with his process. Something needed to be adjusted, he just didn’t know what yet. He picked up the painting where it had fell on the ground. It was done in acrylic; it could be salvaged. He would force it to work. 

He took a step back once again, forcibly calm. It needed more orange, more blue. Brighter tones, thicker skin, sandy hair, it came to him quickly. 

He painted with hurried strokes this time, letting the paint build up in certain areas, letting texture become as much a part of the painting as the colors. The background stayed the same, dull greyish blues, greens, and blacks but the face shone. The orange popping out from the page, mixing with yellow and a hint of blue and red to create an almost golden skin tone. Sherlock wore an absolutely manic grin by the time he had to leave. He stepped back to get a look at it. It was rough, still hardly formed but he could see how it would turn out. Had a picture of it so clear in his mind’s eye. It was written down in the rough strokes that currently occupied the paper. There was something about it strangely familiar but Sherlock pushed it to the side as unimportant.

Sherlock let out a satisfied sigh and began cleaning up, washing his brushes and packing everything except the painting back into his bag. He grabbed the painting, still very conscious about the wet painting covering its surface, and headed out the art studio door, leaving the school through it’s less traveled back entrance. He saw only two people before he made it to the street, slipping into the ostentatious black car that Mycroft sent for him everyday. In truth, it perfectly matched his brother; presumptuous, efficient, and just a little to wide round the middle to be comfortable. 

Sherlock leaned his head back and tried to ignore the day. 

~*~

John was talking to him again, something about rugby, but Sherlock had stopped listening. It had become something of a routine at this point. The two of them would meet back at their lockers during their small fifteen minute break and talk until the bell rang. Or if Sherlock were being more accurate, John would talk and Sherlock would listen. It was the only time the saw each other during the day. In fact, if Sherlock didn’t see him everyday he’d say John was a figment of his imagination. Three weeks and still John talked with him, laughed with him, it was entirely new. 

Sherlock was incredibly distracted today though. Something about the way John was standing, the way he looked today was strangely familiar to Sherlock but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He felt as though he had seen John right in this exact moment before but had no explanation why. 

“Sherlock?” Sherlock’s attention zeroed back in on John’s face and he realized what it was that was so familiar. He recoiled in sudden shock, taking a couple steps back, eyes blown wide.

“Sherlock?” John looked worried now but even with the crease on his forehead it was clearly recognizable. Sherlock was stunned he hadn’t seen it before. The blonde hair, the blue eyes, the grey blue and green of the lockers in the background. The painting he was working on was a portrait of John. How was that possible? Sherlock should have seen, should have figured out why before when the nose seemed too long and the skin too sallow even though that was what the math had said was right. At some point along the way, the portrait of the man he’d seen on the Tube had morphed into a portrait of John.

Sherlock could feel the heat crawling up his face. His hands shook as he quickly grabbed his bag resting down by his feet. He swirled around quickly and took off down the hallway, riding the line between jogging and running. It was unacceptable. What if John saw it? He’d have to change it some how. It was nearly done but maybe he could change the features just enough so it wouldn’t be such as much of a resemblance. It would need to be able to pass off as a happy accident, a subtle similarity. 

“Sherlock! Sherlock, wait!” John called after him. But Sherlock kept walking, weaving through the people even as he heard John trying to run after him. It wasn’t until Sherlock was nearly to the empty art classroom he used as a studio that John caught up with him. John grabbed onto the sleeve of his uniform stopping him from his escape. 

“Sherlock,”John said slightly out of breath, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to freak you out. I just thought it might be fun.” That brought Sherlock up short.

“What?” Sherlock was truly confused. John must have asked him something when he wasn’t listening. 

“Friday?” John said as if prompting him. When Sherlock even looked more confused John let out an exasperated little huff. “Sherlock were you even listening to me just now?”

“No.” Sherlock responded honestly.

“Sherlock you really need to start-” He began then stopped as if he knew he was fighting a losing battle. “I asked if you- wait,” John interrupted himself, “What did you freak out about then?” 

“It’s nothing, John.” 

“No, I don’t think so, Sherlock. You practically ran away from me.” John looked around, suddenly seeming to realize where he was. “To go to the art building?” 

“It’s nothing.” 

“Sherlock-” 

“What did you want to ask me, John.” Sherlock interrupted. John instantly became sheepish. Sherlock’s curiosity was piqued. John was rarely hesitant or uncomfortable. 

“My mates and I were going to go see Donnie Darko this Friday at the cinema. It’s this old mystery film. Anyway, one of them can’t go but we already got his ticket and I was wondering if you wanted to come.” 

John wanted to see a movie with him? John wanted Sherlock to meet his friends and go out to see what was no doubt going to be a terrible mystery film and after they would probably go out for pizza and it would be the kind of Friday night that were always in films. John wanted Sherlock to join them for that? That didn’t make sense. Sherlock was not normal as he was so often reminded by his classmates here. He was the freak, he was the weirdo.

“Sherlock, hey, it’s alright, you don’t have to go. I just thought it might be fun.” John chuckled self-consciously. “You don’t seem like the type that goes out much.” But this was John, maybe it would be different.

“No... that sounds. That sound like it could be...good.” Sherlock finished lamely. It was almost worth the nerves that were already twisting in his stomach for the grin John sent his way. 

“Really! That’s great. I’ll um, text you the details then?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John.

“And you have my number do you?” Sherlock asked and John blushed straight up through his ears. 

“Ah, um, no.” He let out a nervous huff of laughter, “I supposed that could be helpful for the whole texting thing.”

Sherlock took out his phone and composed a quick text to John. He’d caught a glimpse of his number a week in a half ago when he’d opened up his planner. John looked shocked when his phone beeped and he saw the message. 

“‘Yes, I should think so. -SH’” He read aloud. He looked up his eyebrows brought together in confusion. “How’d you?”

“In the front page of your planner. I thought it might be good to have.” Sherlock answered with a shrug. John shook his head with a laugh. 

“I should have known you’d have figured it out by now. I’ll text you then.” He looked around again. “I should probably start heading to my next class. I’ll see you later?”

“Obviously.” And that was the difference with John, he laughed instead of scowled when Sherlock responded like that.

~*~

Sherlock was in his room, trying to figure out how to ‘fix’ the portrait propped up against his dresser when he got his first text from John. 

Thurs., 4:23 P.M. From: John Watson  
do you need a ride to the cinema

Thurs., 4:24 P.M. From: Sherlock  
No. - SH

Sherlock paused after he sent it and add a quick,

Thurs., 4:24 P.M. From: Sherlock  
Thank you. -SH

Thurs., 4:28 P.M. From: John Watson  
can you drive?

Thurs., 4:29 P.M. From: Sherlock  
No. - SH

Thurs., 4:31 P.M. From: John Watson  
how were you planning on getting there then

Thurs., 4:33 P.M. From: Sherlock  
I am capable of calling a cab, John -SH

Thurs., 4:35 P.M. From: John Watson  
so I’ll pick you up around 6:30 then

Thurs., 4:35 P.M. From: John Watson  
doesn’t make sense to call a cab idiot

Thurs., 4:37 P.M. From: Sherlock  
Okay. -SH

Sherlock smiled up at the ceiling and almost forgot his nerves about the following night. 

~*~

The one possible hitch in the whole plan was Mycroft. When Sherlock had agreed to go he had been banking on the fact that Mycroft would be out solving some national crisis or starting a war and much too busy to be at home. However this was Mycroft, who always managed to be the most inconvenient, infuriating person to ever exist which meant he was at home that Friday.

Sherlock’s best route was to escape before Mycroft managed to ask him where he was going. Sherlock should have known better. The doorbell rang at 6:00 and Mycroft was there in half a second, beating Sherlock to the door with ease which just wasn’t fair because Sherlock would have been ready had John showed up when he actually said he would. They’d have to have a talk about punctuality.

“Hello. How can I help you?” Mycroft asked, opening the door. John looked very small when Mycroft purposely towered over him like that and gave him with one of his smarmy smiles. 

“Um,” John seemed rather uncomfortable, “I’m here to pick up Sherlock?” His sentence went up at the end almost as if he were asking a question. 

“Yes!” Sherlock swept in, grabbing his coat and nearly slipping past Mycroft. “Good bye, Mycroft. Don’t wait up.” Sherlock almost succeeded in getting out the door but Mycroft quickly intercepted him, placing a hand on his shoulder. It no doubt looked relaxed but in reality fixed him to the spot with an iron grip. Damn him. 

“I’m sorry. Sherlock seems to have,” Mycroft gave a small pause, “neglected, shall we say, to mention this little outing and in fact you all together.”

“Well, that’s alright. He wouldn’t have done me any credit.” John said with a grin at Sherlock who snorted a small laugh. Mycroft look positively alarmed.

“Brother, dear,” Sherlock said sarcastically, “This is John Watson, a… friend from school.” John held out his hand to shake and Sherlock didn’t think he’d ever seen Mycroft so surprised. He saved the memory of it for when he needed cheering up or Mycroft was really being a dick. Mycroft composed himself, the smile back on his face and shook John’s hand. 

“I see,” Mycroft like he saw all too much, “And where are you going?”

“To the cinema.” John answered easily, “I invited Sherlock to come along with some of my mates and me. I thought he’d like it since we’re seeing a mystery film. I did get here a little early though, I hope you don’t mind?” John directed the last part to Sherlock. 

“Why don’t you come inside. I’m sure Sherlock would love to show you his room.” Mycroft said flashing a knowing smile at Sherlock, almost as if he knew something Sherlock didn’t. It was both extremely irritating and worrying. 

“Alright.” John said amiably as Mycroft brought him inside and urged him and Sherlock to hang up their coats.

“Fine, ignore my opinion on the matter. It’s only my room.” Sherlock grumbled making John chuckle. “Come along, John. Let’s appease my brother, shall we.” 

Sherlock lead John up the stairs. Mycroft was being worrying. Sherlock could tell he still had that smile on his face, the one that hinted that Sherlock was walking into an explosion and didn’t know it yet. He walked down the hallway John close behind him. It was just his room. It was messy but John would hardly care if the state of his backpack was anything to judge on. It wasn’t until he saw his doorknob that he realized his mistake. There was an innocent streak of orange paint across the side of the surface which brought his mind to what lay inside. Inside were his paintings, all of them. The hung on his walls, lay up against his wall, stacked on his dresser. His dresser. Shit! His dresser where the portrait of John was currently propped up facing the bed, unedited, unfixed. Mycroft knew! He’d recognized John. Damn it, Mycroft knew and he didn’t say anything.

Sherlock’s hand was already on the door knob all that it would take was a push on the door and Sherlock’s secret would be out. John would make the same assumptions everyone else did and then he’d leave and Sherlock would go back to not talking to anyone at school unless it was to defend himself from the insults thrown his way. 

“Oh come on, Sherlock.” John said with a laugh and pushed open the door. “Stop being such an enigmatic git.” The sentence started out as a joking but quickly faded into off in surprize as he caught sight of all the paintings.

“John, I-” Sherlock began feeling as though his stomach was in his throat and about to make an appearance through his mouth. It couldn’t be healthy.

“Did you paint these?” John asked interrupting him and walking further into the room. John’s eyes traveled slowly, starting from the paintings hanging near the head of his bed taking in every detail. Sherlock was shaking, he could feel it. 

“Yes.” Sherlock’s voice came out surprisingly weak, even to his own ears. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I just didn’t want you to start thinking what everyone else did and go away.” His own voice sounded foreign in his ears, hesitant and soft. John turned back to him, he hadn’t seen the portrait yet.

“What did everyone else think?” John asked calmly. 

“That I was gay.” Sherlock said sounding very, very small. 

“Are you?” John asked again with surprising calm. Sherlock opened his mouth to respond but the sound was nothing more than an unintelligible mass of syllables. He quickly closed his mouth and looked down at his feet. 

Sherlock knew what would happen. He’d promised himself that this was not something that he would ever lie about. This was nothing to be ashamed of, that is was not a problem and it was just the rest of the school that had a problem. They bullied him into shutting himself off and he knew how it would be when he told John and John left. It would be so much worse than before he’d met John because now he knew what it was like, he knew what it was like to have someone to talk to, to have a friend. He’d start painting in greys again like after his father and mother left permanently for Rome, leaving him with Mycroft as his only parental figure. He could feel it in his bones that this would sap the color from his world and his art. But he held his chin up high and did his best to make his voice sound as normal as possible when he responded.

“Yes.” Sherlock said, still softer than normal but with a faked steel. John held his eyes for a moment before looking down at his feet. Panic overtook Sherlock, “But it’s not- You don’t have to worry about anything. It’s just that I, um, it’s just that I’m gay but it’s not any different really. I would never-” 

“Woah, woah, Sherlock calm down.” John said cutting off Sherlock’s mess of a sentence. “It’s alright. I don’t mind. It’s fine. It’s all fine.” He said looking Sherlock in the eyes again with a small reassuring smile. “Let’s go down stairs. It’s nearly time to leave for the movie.” 

Sherlock realized he was in a state akin to shock as John lead him back down the stairs and to the front door. John handed Sherlock his jacket and grabbed his own. Sherlock realised somewhere in the back of his mind that this was the first time he’d ever seen John out of his school uniform. He occupied himself, as he slipped on his jacket, by drinking in the sight of John Watson in a jumper and jeans. It was oddly fitting. He looked down at himself in jeans and a dress shirt. There was something complimentary about the two styles. They complemented each other. It was good John was staying. 

John was staying! Sherlock had told him he was gay, had shown him his paintings and John was staying. It hit him all very suddenly, a grin spreading across his face and energy singing through his body. Everything was sharp, bright yellows and reds and golds. He felt like he was high, not that he knew what that felt like, although he had been curious in the past. He felt like he could paint forever. 

“We’ll be back around ten or eleven!” Sherlock called out, knowing that Mycroft would hear him. “Laters!” He quickly ushered John out the door.

“In a hurry are you?” John asked with a laugh pulling out his car keys and leading them to an old, beat-up Volvo in front of Sherlock’s house and just like that everything was back to normal.

“You never know what ridiculous reason Mycroft might invent to keep us here.” Sherlock said with disgust and climbed into the car. 

They were leaving about fifteen minutes earlier than necessary but neither of them mentioned it instead enjoying the drive in a comfortable silence. They got to the cinema thirty minutes before the show time and walked leisurely toward the theater.

“Ah, shit.” John said as they walked up the steps to the entrance. “I forgot my water bottle in the car. I’ll be right back. Just wait here for a second.” Sherlock simply nodded and watched John walk back into the parking lot. 

“Oi! Poofer!” Sherlock felt himself visibly tense at the insult and the familiar voice that shouted it. He forced himself to stand up straight and stare passively away. He knew better than to hope they’d leave him alone but he could always try. 

“Sherly, it’s rude to ignore when someone’s talking to you.” The voice continued and then suddenly he was being forcefully pushed into facing the usual group of bullies minus one. Sebastian stood with a cruel smile on his face and his three little cronies crowded up behind him. They were all tall and muscular, fit from rigorous rugby practice and confident due to lack of intelligence.

“I see you’ve lost one of your little minions.” Sherlock remarked coolly. “Did he come to his senses and realise the stupidity of you lot and call it quits?”

“Just so long as we’re not a freak like you, Sherlock.” Sebastian said poking him roughly in the chest. Sherlock took an unintentional step back and they all crowded closer. 

“Freaking psychopath.” Anderson, one of his gang, added under his breath. 

“Yeah, Sherlock? Are you a psychopath? A fag and a psychopath, not a good mix there.” Sebastian asked. “Or a sociopath as you’re so fond of correcting? Does that mean it didn’t hurt a bit when Mommy and Daddy abandoned you for better things?” Sherlock flinched. They’d backed him up against the wall of the theater now surrounding him on all sides. Sherlock’s vision began to blur. “See, even they couldn’t stand having such a poofer, such a freak for a son, so they left. Is that how it went, freak?” There was a sudden growl from outside the circle and things descended into chaos. Someone appeared in front of Sherlock, throwing a punch after punch at Sebastian, knocking him to the ground. Sherlock slid down and shrunk against the wall curling in on himself. He tried to make sense of what he was seeing but everything was tilting and blurry. Sherlock shut his eyes feeling nauseous. 

“Sherlock! Sherlock, are you alright!” John, of course it was John. Sherlock felt some of the tension bleed out of his body. He felt John kneel down next to him and put one hand on his shoulder, the other on the side of his face. Sherlock leaned into the hand on his cheek, focusing his attention on its warmth instead of the rioting world around him. “It’s alright, Sherlock. Everything’s okay now.” The hand on his shoulder began brushing back the hair on his forehead and running through his hair. Sherlock took a breath for what felt like the first time since the conflict began. It shaked and shuttered through his chest. 

John was very close sitting, just to the right of Sherlock. His cheek was swelling from where he’d obviously gotten hit. Sherlock lifted his hand and touched lightly around his eye.

“You’re going to have a black eye.” He observed. John let out a shaky laugh.

“I’m not surprised by that.” He paused thinking. “I think I might have broken Sebastian’s nose though so it's definitely worth it.” Sherlock felt something inside his chest swell like a balloon. He wanted nothing more than to bury his face in the crock of John’s next and hold him onto him. John, the only person that had ever stood up for him. His eyes felt prickly. He smiled.

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock said softly. John nodded but his expression quickly darkened in anger.

“I can’t believe the what they said-” John caught himself off, taking a few breaths to calm down. “Is this common, Sherlock?” John asked instead. Sherlock shrugged, not meeting John’s eyes, instead looking down at where their knees were brushing together.

“It’s not normally that,” Sherlock wondered how to say it, “bad...but I hear things like that on a fairly frequent basis.” Sherlock heard John suck in a harsh breath and looked up. He was surprised to see pure, boiling anger in John’s eyes. 

“Sherlock, I want you to listen to me right now. This is very important.” John’s hands had come to rest on either side of Sherlock’s face holding his attention. “You are amazing. You are the most intelligent person I have ever met and you’re artwork is fantastic. I want you to come to me if you ever feel like you did just now or if anyone is giving you a hard time because you do not deserve it. I will be there for you. I will help you.” Sherlock’s vision went a bit blurry again. 

“And I will help you.” Sherlock responded and John smiled softly at him.

“It’s a deal.” John offered him a hand up and Sherlock took it. They stood there smiling at each other for a moment both feeling raw but happy. 

“Where are your friends, John?” Sherlock asked looking around. “They should have been here by now.” 

“It seems I’ve made a mistake about who to count as a friend.” John said with a scowl. “Seems like the rugby team isn’t always the best place for friends.” Sherlock thought back to Sebastian and his gang, they were missing one of their people. Sherlock was supposed to take his place for the night. Sherlock balked at the realization that John had considered himself friends with those people. He looked quickly up at John, searching his face. He saw nothing but anger and shame and compassion for Sherlock. John placed his hand on Sherlock’s forearm. “Never again, Sherlock. Never again.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is ridiculous, Sherlock.” John said looking at them all again as if some of them would have changed. “No one want’s to look at me. I thought you had better taste in subject matter.”

Things were different between them after that. They became next to inseperable. John ate lunch with Sherlock in the empty art room and although Sherlock never painted in front of John he felt much more comfortable with John in his work space. John always complained about how Sherlock never let him see his work but it became quickly clear to Sherlock that John would not be permitted to anytime soon.

Sherlock had started his concentration out of something more like necessity than choice. Sherlock no longer seemed in control of what he painted much to his initial frustration. Blue eyes, tan skin, and sandy hair. Short, compact, and fit. It all added up to John. Everything he painted morphed somehow into a smile, a silhouette, a figure drawing, it all ended in John. The worst thing was, Sherlock could not bring himself to change any of it and so John stayed blissfully ignorant about Sherlock’s art and Sherlock gave into his unknowing muse. 

Sherlock knew it couldn’t stay a secret forever though if John truly was going to be the subject of his concentration. The past year Sherlock had been rejected from the art show due to the fact that none of his paintings were from direct observation. He’d tried to explain to them the photographic ability of his mind, his ability to perfectly conjure up an image but they did not accept it. There was also the problem of the shows theme this year, “In the nude”. 

Sherlock up until this point had been doing a fairly good job at ignoring this particular of the show until the day Mycroft showed up in his room as he was looking over what he had so far. Sherlock had hung up his ten pieces in a semicircle around his room, each one a flair of bright oranges, yellows, reds, and blues. It was by far the most colorful show Sherlock will have ever produced. He didn’t even realize Mycroft was there until he spoke up.

“Does he know?” Was all he asked. Sherlock knew it wasn’t just in relation to the concentration.

“No.” Sherlock said softly. Mycroft was quiet for a while walking over to each painting. He stopped in front of the portrait.

“I think it’s time.” He turned toward Sherlock, his expression surprisingly soft. “What are you going to do about the life drawing and the nude?” Sherlock shrugged in response trying to force down his nerves. 

“I have to tell him about this first. One step at a time brother, mine.” Sherlock said and then pulled out his phone.

Mon., 5:13 P.M. From: Sherlock  
Can you come over? - SH  
Mon., 5:20 P.M. From: John Watson  
sure whats up  
Mon., 5:21 P.M. From: Sherlock  
I’d rather show you. - SH  
Mon., 5:13 P.M. From: John Watson  
okay im on my way over now eta 10min

Sherlock threw his phone down on his bed and made his way down stairs and into the kitchen. Sherlock had noticed that John’s coping mechanism when faced with something uncomfortable was to have tea. He turned the kettle on and fished out one of the bags of John’s favorite tea he’d taken to stocking up on. 

Sherlock was just pouring the water in the mugs when the doorbell rang. He threw in the tea bags and made his way to the front door. John stood on the steps in a light blue jumper and a grey knitted hat. A few specks of snow were caught on his jumper and in his hat and hair. His eyes positively glowed. Sherlock’s felt his chest tighten and nerves increase in a way that was becoming customary. 

Sherlock had first recognized this for what it was the day John first came to him for help instead of the otherway around. He’d texted Sherlock around midnight on a weekday saying simply that he’d be over in fifteen minutes. Sherlock had been surprised at first but worry had quickly won out. John liked plans and although he seemed to go along with Sherlock calling him over out of the blue, John liked organization when he did something. 

Sherlock had been waiting outside for five minutes by the time John finally pulled up in front of his house. It was just starting transition from fall to winter. Sherlock stood out in nothing but his pajamas and his coat. He was shaking with cold but all discomfort was pushed aside as irrelevant the moment he saw John. 

John’s eyes were red and puffy as if he’d been crying and sunken like he hadn’t gotten more than three hours of sleep the past two nights. His shoulders were hunched in something close to defeat and his mouth turned down in the corners. Sherlock quickly deduced a fight with his mother about her drinking habits which had simply lead to her and his sister going on a binge to spite him. 

Sherlock’s chest physically ached for him. He wanted to wrap John up and take him away from anything that made him unhappy, to shield him from those who were too incredibly stupid to see what a treasure they had in their lives. He was angry and sad an, he realized, desperately in love with the boy who was walking up to his doorstep as if the the weight of the world was on his shoulders.

Sherlock had rushed down the steps, meeting him halfway, and wrapped him in a tight hug. John had been amazingly warm. He’d sighed lightly before dropping his bags and returning the hug with a desperate force, like Sherlock was the one thing holding him together. Sherlock had pulled back after what seemed like an age and looked into his eyes. He gave John what he hoped was a reassuring smile and whipped away a stray tear. 

Those same blue eyes looked up at him now, merriment dancing in their depths this time. Sherlock prefered it much more this way. A sad and broken John was the worst thing the world could do. 

“What can I do for you, Sherlock?” John asked brightly, stepping inside and hanging up his hat and jacket. To Sherlock’s delight he didn’t shake out the snow in his hair. Sherlock quickly tried to memorize the way it looked before reaching out and shaking it out, relishing the feeling of John’s hair between his fingers. 

“Snow.” He explained at John’s questioning look then gestured toward the kitchen. “Tea?” 

“Sure?” John answered somewhat skeptically. They ambled into the kitchen and Sherlock handed John his mug, both had finished brewing in the time where they were outside. 

“You know,” John began, “You only make me tea when you’re worried I’m going to be upset about something.” Sherlock had to admit he was impressed at John’s attention.

“Very good, John” Sherlock said approvingly making John flush rather prettily. When Sherlock didn't continue John began to look slightly uncomfortable. 

“So?” John asked. “What did you do?” Sherlock looked down at his feet, suddenly nervous. This was why he hadn’t done relationships of any sort. They were complicated, messy, and likely to be painful and yet here he was against all better judgement. The worst thing was is he wouldn’t change a thing.

“Sherlock, you’re making me extremely nervous.” 

“I-” Sherlock stopped thinking. He should have planned this out more. “John, you know I am getting ready for the city art show.”

“Yes.”

“And also that I have not allowed you to see any of my art for it so far.”

“Yes, Sherlock, I am definitely aware of that fact.”

“Well, I didn’t want to show you because...because,” Sherlock’s throat seemed to swell up, the rest of the sentence stuck before it could be turned into words. He let out a growl of frustration, running his hands none too gently through his hair. Sherlock looked up when he felt John’s hand on his arm. 

“Do you want to show me your concentration now?” John asked. Sherlock felt his body relax. He nodded once stiffly. “Okay, how about I see it and we’ll figure out this,” He gestured at Sherlock vaguely, “after?” 

“Okay.” And to Sherlock’s horror it came out as a high squeak. John’s mouth twitched in amusement but he didn’t laugh at Sherlock, just gestured him to lead the way. 

When Sherlock opened the door to his room John’s mouth fell open. He walked into the room slowly eyes sweeping quickly from one painting to the other. It was strangely reminiscent to the first time he’d ever seen Sherlock’s room. Sherlock felt about the same way he did then, which meant his heart was in his throat. John turned back toward him, a look Sherlock had never seen on his face before. It was sharp as if John were suddenly trying to figure something out about Sherlock.

“Sherlock, these are-” He began and stopped clearing his throat. “Are you in-” He stopped again, something like wonder in his eyes before he turned back around and simply looked at them all. Sherlock watched his eye’s travel from one to the next to the next. His gaze stopped on the portrait, eyes softening. He turned back around and moved to stand next to Sherlock where they stood facing the paintings. They stood there for an indeterminable amount of time. Sherlock was sure he was going to explode from the nerve fueled adrenaline pumping through his body. It was John who broke the silence.

“Don’t you need twelve paintings for the concentration?” It was so unexpected and so utterly John that Sherlock couldn’t stop the bark of surprised laughter from escaping him. John giggled as well and soon the both of them were bowed over with laughter. It cut through the tension like a knife most, if not all, of Sherlock’s nervousness. 

“This is ridiculous, Sherlock.” John said looking at them all again as if some of them would have changed. “No one want’s to look at me. I thought you had better taste in subject matter.” John threw a grin over his shoulder at Sherlock. “Although it really does show how fantastic an artist you are that you’ve managed to make me interesting.” Sherlock lay a hand lightly on John’s shoulder and John looked up at him with that same searching look as before. His eyes flitted quickly across Sherlock’s face as if he was looking for an answer and expected it from Sherlock. Sherlock was a lot closer to him than he’d originally thought. He felt his breathing speed up unconsciously.

“You are a very interesting person, John.” Sherlock said softly. “I just had the honor of putting it down on paper.” John looked away, a smile on his face but seemingly unable to meet Sherlock’s eye. Sherlock took a step back, allowing them both to breathe, and clasping his hands behind his back. “You don’t mind though?” 

“What? Of course not, Jesus, no, Sherlock. This, this is fantastic. I can’t believe you actually wanted to do all...this.” He said gesturing vaguely. Sherlock wondered about telling him about the next two paintings and what he need from John. The rush of nerves at even the idea of that conversation was enough to keep him quiet. No, that could wait a little while longer. 

“Next time though, Sherlock? It’d probably be best to ask someone’s permission first.” John said softly chiding but his smile was enough to let Sherlock know he’d been forgiven. He gave John a quick nod to let him know he’d been understood. John threw himself down on Sherlock’s bed. “So am I going to be allowed to watch you paint now?” Excitement clear in his tone. 

“Perhaps.” Sherlock said purposely enigmatic and settled down opposite of John. 

“Oh come off it you git. Let me watch you paint.” Sherlock let loose a long suffering sigh.

“I suppose it can’t be avoided now.” Sherlock’s mouth twitched up in a grin at his good fortune. John had given him enough space to ask as well as play it off as a jib if it didn’t go over well. “Only if you model for me, though.” He felt John stiffen next to him. He was still for a moment and then propped himself up on his elbow, looking down at Sherlock who was surprised to see his face had gone red as if in embarrassment. 

“You really want me to model for you?” Sherlock nodded and relished the look of John leaning over him. John dropped himself back on to the bed forcefully. “Okay.” 

They lay there looking up at the ceiling for a long while in comfortable silence. 

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock said and looked over at him. John had fallen asleep. 

~*~

John looked uncharacteristically nervous when he meet Sherlock in the empty art room. He kept fidgeting with his clothing and running his fingers through his hair. Sherlock, who’d been trying, unsuccessfully, to clean oil paint from his brushes, looked over in irritation.

“What, John?” John jumped as if he’d only just realized Sherlock was in the room. If this was how nervous John was when all Sherlock was doing was a life drawing, what would he be like when Sherlock inevitably had to ask him to model sans clothing. Sherlock didn’t want to think about it.

“I’m just- Is this okay, for today?” They’d decided to meet in the art room and do the painting directly after school. If all went well Sherlock would be able to get enough of it done that he could do the rest from memory. Sherlock looked him up and down let his eyes linger on what John was wearing. He wore the same light blue jumper, just as Sherlock had predicted. He’d worn it the day he had come over to Sherlock’s house and he’d first shown John his concentration. He wore jeans that were slightly worn and would most likely rip at some point in the next three weeks. Sherlock nodded to himself. It was close to what he wanted but the scenery was wrong. His mind kept going back to John in contrast to snow. There would be nothing for it. It seemed that it would be a chilly session. 

“Do you have a scarf with you?” He asked, turning back to his brushes.

“Yes.” 

“Good.” Sherlock said, shaking the water out of the brushes and looked toward John with a grin, “We’re going to be painting outside today.” He grabbed his bag, easel and coat and headed outside the back door of the art building. 

“Wait! Sherlock, there’s still snow. We’ll freeze!” John called.

“Exactly, John!” He heard John muttering curses under his breath and knew that he’d soon be outside with him. The snow lay in great heaps against the walls where the wind had blown it but began to even out across what was, during the other seasons, a football field. He headed out to the very center where all he could see was white and pale blue mixed together in the snow. John came up huffing behind him. 

“You should have told me we were going to be outside. I would have worn something warmer.” John said a little indignantly. Sherlock shrugged.

“I wanted you to wear that jumper. You wouldn’t have if you thought we’d be outside.” 

“How’d you know I’d- Oh, nevermind.” 

“That one’s your favorite. Plus, it makes your eyes look good. Stands to reason you’d wear it if you were going to be painted.” Sherlock said answered the unasked question. “Now go on and stand out there.” He said gesturing in front of where the easel was set up. John did as he was told, hand’s instinctively finding his pockets.   
“Is there anything in particular you want me to-”

“No.” Sherlock said cutting him off. “Just be yourself.” 

Sherlock was less than halfway through the rough sketch when he realized that his lack of direction was not going to work for John. All of his other pieces were snapshots of moments, taken in the middle of an action. It had been unconscious but his brain had been storing images of John doing things for ages. What John was doing now was standing in place and looking uncomfortable. That wouldn’t do. He’d have to get John moving some how. John spoke before Sherlock could.

“Sherlock, need to grab a jacket. I’m going to be frozen otherwise.” Sherlock took off his own jacket and step forward wrapping it loosely around John’s shoulders. He took a step back, head tilting in thought.

“Hold onto the coat, cross your arms in front of your chest.” John did as he asked and then continued standing there. He needed something that would break John out of his shell. He needed snow. Sherlock lean down and scooped up a hand full of snow.

“Sherlock, what are you-” John started apprehensively but cut off when Sherlock threw the snow at John. He let out a high pitched laugh. “You will pay for that, Sherlock Holmes” He reached down and made a snowball throwing it directly at Sherlock’s chest. John laughed at the stunned and vaguely affronted look on Sherlock’s face. Sherlock frowned down at his now wet t-shirt. Well, this would do, he thought and began throwing snow balls as well. 

They circled around hurling snow at each other. With each passing minute it became clear to Sherlock that John clearly had more expertise. He was throwing volley after volley at Sherlock who could barely throw a snowball for every two of John’s. 

“You’ve obviously had more experience with this.” Sherlock said panting slightly, lobbing another snowball which hit John smack in the chest. Sherlock received two smashing into his side in quick succession for his pains. 

“Is the great Sherlock Holmes admitting that I’m better at something than he is?” John asked quirking an eyebrow. Sherlock scoffed.

“Only admitting that you’ve had more experience than I. Give me another ten minutes and I’ll be much more efficient.” John gave a laugh that made the inside of Sherlock’s stomach twist and turn in a not unpleasant way. 

“I’ll just have to play dirty then.” John said running toward him and scooping up a pile of snow from ground. Sherlock backed up but not quick enough to escape John throwing his armful at Sherlock. John continued barreling toward him, surprise and panic flashing across his face. “I’m slipping! Sherlock!” 

John ran into him with nearly enough force to knock him to the ground. He hit Sherlock a little off center and grabbed shoulders trying to stay up right. Sherlock felt the snow shift beneath his feet as John’s momentum pulled him around and towards the ground. He landed none too gently on top John, chest to chest; Sherlock’s head nearly coming into collision with his. Sherlock froze at the sudden proximity. He could feel John’s breath puffing, light and warm against his lips. John’s cheeks were flushed red with cold and exertion and snow stuck to his eyelashes and hair. Sherlock was held completely still captivated by the feeling of John beneath him. It was stunning, his short compact body slotted so closely with his own, blue eyes shining up at him. He could feel the shake of John’s laughter and the rumble in his chest as he spoke.

“Um, Sherlock? You’re rather heavy.” Sherlock sat up violently feeling his cheeks flare crimson. Shit. He looked down at John from where he was sitting legs on either side of his waist and felt excitement flare through him, chasing away the previous embarrassment. 

“John, don’t move.” Sherlock said quickly before leaping up and grabbing his canvas and paints. He lay the canvas board across John’s chest and sat back down on his waist, all previous hesitance forgotten. Sherlock’s coat pooled beneath John, patches of snow sticking to it, blending it nicely into the surrounding snow. John was absolutely covered in snowflakes from head to chest. It was stunning how complementary they were to his flushed skin and happy grin. 

“Like this? You couldn’t have picked a more comfortable position?” John asked but the smile didn’t leave his face. Sherlock grinned down at him throwing paint on his pallet.

“Sorry, John. Light’s fading and we need to work fast besides, a little frozen water never hurt anyone.”

“Tell that to someone with frostbite or hypothermia.” John said lightly making Sherlock laugh. 

Sherlock had never painted with such ease before. However, he’d never painted with a live subject before, always choosing in the past to simply go off of memory. He now saw what a foolish idea that was. Everything simply made sense. The mood picked the brush strokes and enhanced the color. He no longer had to fabricate the feeling of the moment with maths, instead he had direct access to it, he was a part of it. It was thrilling. 

John watched him the entire time, whether Sherlock was looking at him or not. Sherlock felt his stare and, for the first time, didn’t feel self conscious when he painted. It was almost comforting, the smiles John would give him when Sherlock met his eye or the laughter he felt in John’s chest when Sherlock had leaned particularly close to John’s eye to get a better look at a snowflake caught in his eyelashes. 

And although the majority of Sherlock’s focus was completely on painting, there was a small part of him that was quietly rejoicing the closeness of John and how comfortable he seemed with it. It was new and warm. Sherlock had never been more content than in those moments. 

Sherlock finished what needed to be done just as the sun slipped beneath the horizon. He moved the painting off to the side, setting it gently down in the snow, his paints   
and pallet following soon after. He groaned as he stood up, knees cold and stiff from disuse. He realized only then that he was freezing, a shiver wracked his whole body. He looked down at John who he could was also shaking slightly. 

“Tea?” He asked moving to the side and offering John as hand up. Their fingers fumbled with cold before getting a grip and he was able to haul him up. 

“Y-yes, please.” John said enthusiastically albeit shakily. John helped Sherlock clean up his supplies and they headed out the back exit where Mycroft’s car was already waiting. 

The slipped inside the warm vehicle shaking and wet but both cheerful. 

~*~  
When they got back to Sherlock’s house Mycroft was waiting in the sitting room, three steaming cups of tea on the tray in front of him. 

“Both of you go upstairs and change into something dry before you catch cold, then you can have tea” He said, forestalling Sherlock’s advance, waving them away. “John, I’m sure Sherlock can supply something for you to wear.” 

The two of them trudged up the stairs, leaving a trail of water droplets on the rug behind them. Sherlock quickly peeled his wet shirt away from his skin throwing it across the back of his desk chair and grabbed himself and John a t-shirt and pair of sweatpants from his drawers.

“They will be a bit big on you but at least they’re dry.” He turned around just as John was lifting his own shirt over his head, his sentence fading away. John was, well, he was really quite fit which, in retrospect, Sherlock should have expected due to rugby but he’d never given it much thought. He felt his breathing speed up as his eyes danced along the plains of John’s body. He licked his suddenly dry lips. John seemed to give a small start as well when he saw Sherlock, his face blushing bright red. He quickly dropped Sherlock’s eye and put his wet shirt next to Sherlock’s. 

“Thanks.” He said softly and grabbed the offered shirt and sweatpants from Sherlock. “I’ll just, um.” He gestured toward the bathroom down the hall and quickly left the room. Sherlock stood in the center of the room and wanted for the first time in his life. God, did he want John Watson. He was practically humming with it. The image of John’s chest was branded into his mind, superimposed across everything he was seeing. The way his muscles looked in the pale light coming in from his window and their movement as he removed his shirt was mesmerizing. He felt arousal sing through his body and he quickly shook his head trying to clear it. He stripped down and pulled on the pair of sweatpants and t-shirt and threw his and John’s wet clothes into his hamper. John knocked on the door some what hesitantly and came in still refusing to meet Sherlock’s eye. 

“Tea?” He asked and Sherlock hummed in agreement. When they went downstairs Sherlock saw, much to his dismay, Mycroft was still sitting at the table. Before Sherlock could think of a way of getting them back upstairs, John grabbed his cup of tea and sat down on the couch. Sherlock grumbled, grabbing his own cup and sitting down tilted away from Mycroft and toward John instead. 

“So I see Sherlock’s told you about his concentration, then?” Mycroft observed. 

“Obviously.” Sherlock said even as John gave him an affirmative noise around his cup. 

“And you’re alright with this, John?”

“I’m more than happy to be painted no matter what the circumstance. It’s quite flattering.” John said with a smile. Well that was...promising, Sherlock thought. Mycroft’s smirk showed his thoughts were traveling along the same line of thought. 

“Well that’s... fortunate.” Mycroft said with a smirk. 

“Piss off, Mycroft.” Sherlock said quickly, willing his voice to stay strong. Damn him. Damn him! Sherlock shrunk in on himself, trying dissolve into the chair. 

“Oh?” John asked looking between Sherlock and Mycroft. “Sherlock?” Sherlock didn’t respond, curing in on himself instead. John gave Sherlock a long, accessing look. He then turned a cold glare at Mycroft. “I think it’s time you stop meddling Mycroft.” 

Sherlock’s head shot up in surprise at the same time as Mycroft’s.

“I’m not meddling, John. I had assumed that Sherlock had talked to you.” Mycroft tried to cover but John just shook his head, a angry smile fixed on his face. 

“No. No, I don’t think you understand something, Mycroft. I genuinely like your brother and I know you preach the whole ‘caring is not an advantage’ spiel but let me tell you something, you are wrong. I will stick by Sherlock and we will figure things out on our own and the last thing that we need is for some jealous brother trying to tip the   
boat. Leave us alone.” John stood up and looked over at Sherlock, offering a reassuring smile. “Come on, I want to take a closer look at your old paintings.” Sherlock nodded and shot a triumphant grin at Mycroft. John was a gift Sherlock did not think he deserved.

~*~  
Sherlock purposely took longer than normal finishing up the most recent painting of John. He worked on it only during lunches, never at home. He told himself it was because he was busy and couldn’t spare the time at home but he knew better. 

He’d planned out the conversation at least thirty two different ways and was still unsure how to go about asking John. He needed John to agree to pose otherwise his concentration would be incomplete. That was enough pressure, without his own feelings and their friendship added to the mix. It was a delicate situation, one Sherlock was sure he’d blow through like a bull in a china shop.

~*~  
John was being particularly distracting today. It was the day before winter break began and so the air was filled with a nearly tangible excitement which set Sherlock on edge. John was clearly high with it, humming slightly out of tune Christmas carols under his breath the entire day. He was doing so now as he lay on his back across one of the tables in the room, his face tilted toward Sherlock to watch him paint. 

There was something about John lying there, on leg propped up on the desk and the other hang of the edge at his knee, his concentration on Sherlock, that was driving Sherlock up the wall. He’d barely made a single mark on his canvas the entire lunch period and had instead spent the majority of the time fighting back the impulse to walk over, lean down, and press his body against John’s. He had imagined the feel of John’s lips against his so many times over the past months Sherlock had lost count. It never stopped a thrill of excitement from running down his spine. It would be so easy to just take what he wanted. It would be soft and warm and wet and blissful. His mind happily supplied some of the noises John might make, soft sighs and rumbling groans, the kind Sherlock could feel when he was pressed against his chest. He wanted nothing more than to lie between John’s legs and mouth as his neck, his chest, his stomach. He wanted to taste and touch and feel and-

“Sherlock?” John asked and Sherlock realized he’d been staring at John’s mouth. He felt his face flush. He body was alight with arousal, his breathing fast, skin flushed, and pupils no doubt dilated. His lower body also seem particularly interested in his fantasies, making even more color rise to Sherlock’s cheeks. He looked down, hoping John would be kind enough to forget. It had to be obvious. John wasn’t stupid, despite how often Sherlock said otherwise, he would see the flush of Sherlock’s cheeks and slight tightness of his trousers. There was a soft gasp, one that made Sherlock’s heart throb as well as other areas. He heard John get off up the table and walk over to where Sherlock stood. 

Sherlock could feel the heat of John’s body he was standing so close, which really was cruel considering what he knew. Sherlock nearly flinched away when he felt John’s fingertips brush against his cheek. His hand traveled down to his chin.

“Look at me, Sherlock.” John said softly, tilting his chin up so that he was forced to meet John’s gaze. What he saw there made Sherlock freeze. John’s eyes weren’t wary or disgusted but tender and happy. A smile that John was obviously trying to keep from turning into a grin was shining from John’s face. “Why didn’t you say something?”  
Sherlock’s mouth opened but no answer came forth. His brain had shut down. It was unable to process and the fact that John was tracing his jaw with his thumb, the remainder of his hand resting on Sherlock’s neck, really was not helping. John let out a soft laugh. Sherlock closed his mouth with an audible click.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so shocked before. Here, maybe this will help.” John said with a wicked grin and leaned in. Then his lips were tracing Sherlock’s jaw line, not kissing, simply dragging along the edge. Sherlock felt it like fire, shooting out live sparks all through his body catching fire in his chest and along his spine. He sucked in a large amount of air, feeling suddenly light headed.

“Oh.” He said quietly as John continued nuzzling at his jaw. John backed him up until Sherlock’s hips hit a table. 

“You are,” John began, stopping to give a wet, sucking kiss just above Sherlock’s collar bone, “tremendously thick if you thought I didn’t want you.” Sherlock felt a shiver wrack his entire body as John crowded in closer and worked his way back up Sherlock’s throat. Their chest bumped together. 

“John, I-” His breath hitched as John kissed just behind his ear. He let out a low groan when John nibbled lightly on his ear lobe. John’s breath hitched in response and it was nearly too much for Sherlock to bear. “Are you sure this is what you-” He gasped at flick of John’s tongue. “I’m not the most ideal person for relationships.” John pulled back to look at him, his hands settling comfortably on Sherlock’s waist. 

“Have you ever been in a relationship before, Sherlock?” 

“No but-” John cut him off with a kiss to his nose, the words getting stuck in Sherlock’s throat at his proximity. “Then how,” John kissed his brow, “do you know,” He kissed his cheek, “that your crap at it?” John’s mouth was hovering above his. The pull felt tangible between them. He could feel John’s breath, just as harsh and heavy as his own, blowing against his mouth. His mind was still reeling. Everything was moving too fast for him to absorb which was a first in his life. It was overwhelming.   
“You. You want to kiss me.” Sherlock stated more than asked, his voice coming out surprisingly low and breathless. He could almost feel the nearly inaudible whine and stutter of John’s breath on his lips as if in response . 

“Yes. Very, very much and for a long time now.” There was a slight pause. “Is that okay?” Sherlock wrestled his eyes from John’s mouth and looked up, lost in a sea of blue. John was beautiful and wonderful. He was sensitive and kind, all the things Sherlock was not. John would not break him. It would be okay. He looked back down at John’s lips and said the first thing that came to mind.

“Please.” It was somewhere between a whine and groan but John was kissing him before he had the chance to feel self conscious about it. His lips were light, dragging   
gently across his and with each touch Sherlock’s mind went blissfully blank, the rest of the world shut out. Sherlock’s hands scrambled onto John’s chest, holding onto his jacket as if he were about to be swept away. John’s hand traveled up to the nape of Sherlock’s neck tangling in the small hairs there and bringing him closer. The kisses became longer as John tilted his head to the side to lock their lips together at a better angle. Sherlock was lost but John lead him through it patiently, showing him how to move. It was akin to a dance, one Sherlock was just learning the steps to. John sucked Sherlock’s lower lip into his mouth and Sherlock couldn’t stop the gasp from escaping. He felt slightly light headed, his breathing short and fast. He couldn’t get enough air, couldn’t lengthen his breaths. He was gasping. He pulled back almost dizzy with the sensations. He put his hand on his chest, trying to regain control of his breathing.

“I can’t get enough air.” He panted and looked up at John, something near panic on his face. “I’m breathing too fast, John.” He gasped. “This can’t be healthy.” John threw his head back laughed long and hard. He eventually calmed himself down although his eyes were still dancing with leftover laughter when he spoke.

“Sherlock, you’re fine. You’re aroused. It’s a completely normal reaction.” 

“I’ve been aroused around you and because of you before but it’s never been like this.” He said, gesturing to his still heaving chest. John’s eyes visibly darkened at Sherlock’s statement, pupils swelling until they nearly filled up his eyes. 

“Is that so?” John asked, sliding close again, pressing his body tight against Sherlock’s. Sherlock nodded and swallowed audibly; his body sang with energy as their chests and hips knocked together. “Maybe we’ll just have to experiment then?” John suggested, his mouth turning up into a nearly wicked grin and licked up along the line of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock’s knees buckled with pleasure, John’s weight pressing him into the desk the only thing that keeping him standing. “Contradictory data must be understood after all. What do you think?” Sherlock let out a strangled groan which John took for agreement, laving at his collar bone.

The high shrill tone of the bell signalling the end of lunch split through the air making them both jump. John slowly lifted his head from Sherlock’s neck, leaving a patch of cooling saliva on Sherlock’s skin. John stepped back with a sheepish grin, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. Sherlock’s chest was still heaving.

“I’ll be totally honest, I completely forgot we were still at school.” Sherlock nodded in agreement still holding on to the table for support, mind reeling. “Hey, Sherlock before I have to go. Well, I want to know otherwise I’ll go insane. Does this mean- I mean, are we, like, a thing now?” John asked his face flushing red. After everything John had done to him in the last fifteen minutes the idea of him blushing over that question made Sherlock chuckle. 

“Yes, I would like that.” Sherlock answered and John grinned at him. 

“Good. I think I would combust if I couldn’t kiss you anymore after this.” They stood there smiling rather stupidly at each other for a minute before John roused himself and grabbed his bag. “I need to go. I’m going to be late-”

“Will you come over after school?” Sherlock blurted, plowing over John. He felt his own face flush a bit in embarrassment. John paused on his way out and smiled at him. 

“Wouldn’t miss it. Now I really do have to go, I’m going to be late as it is.” He leaned in and gave Sherlock a quick peck on the lips before rushing out of the classroom, a grin fixed on his face. 

Sherlock continued to sit on the table long after the bell for the beginning of class had rung. His chest felt like it could burst open and his face hurt from the smile that had refused to leave his face. It was all very uncomfortable. He was sure he’d never been more happy at any other time in his life.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one fought me tooth and nail the entire time so I apologize with how long it took me to get it up. Super unedited to please forgive spelling and punctuation mistakes. I do my best on my own.

If getting to kiss John hadn’t been enough for Sherlock to be content the rest of his life, the look on Mycroft’s face when he caught sight of Sherlock after school would have made up for it. It was a mix between unease, disgust, and surprize. It made Sherlock’s already wide grin grow even further.

“Something wrong, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked flippantly as he shrugged his bag onto the ground. Mycroft straightened his shoulders and shut the emotions from his face. 

“Nothing at all brother, dear. I just never thought you a fool. Let alone that our John Watson would be fool enough to get into a relationship with you.” Sherlock simply sneered at him. 

“‘We are all fools in love’, Mycroft and unless you want to see John and me acting the part than I suggest you leave as he should be here quite soon.”

“Jane Austen, Sherlock? I didn’t know you had it in you.” Mycroft said mockingly despite the fact he grabbed his coat and umbrella preparing to leave.

“And I you. I find her writings of people highly instructive and applicable to modern times even if the plot would put anyone with a brain to sleep.” Sherlock said and thrust open the door for him. “Goodbye, Mycroft. Try not to start a war, would you. It makes traffic frankly awful and I was hoping for John to get here within the hour. 

“Do be responsible, Sherlock. I don’t want to come home to find you-” Sherlock slammed the door with Mycroft on the other side and quickly slid home the lock. He heard Mycroft’s frankly explosive sigh through the door. 

Sherlock was just about to head upstairs when he heard John knock. He must have shown up right at Mycroft was leaving. When he opened the door John looked surprised   
Sherlock had answered so quickly. Sherlock didn’t give him time to comment, grabbing him by the front of his jacket and pulling him inside. He closed the door quickly and crowded John up against it. He tilted his head down until his mouth hovered right above John’s, pressing their bodies close. John’s breath audibly hitched. 

“Hello.” He said rumbled softly.

“Jesus, your voice, Sherlock.” John said with a small gasp. Sherlock chuckled and kissed the side of John’s mouth. John let out a low groan and pulled Sherlock down to meet his mouth full on. John’s tongue traced the seam of Sherlock’s lips and Sherlock opened his mouth to John with a soft sigh. Suddenly there was another tongue in his mouth tracing the back of his teeth and sliding along the roof of his mouth, making Sherlock’s knees weak with pleasure. The slick and slide of their tongues against each other was nothing short of bliss and quickly waking up other parts of his body. 

John broke away with a gasp and a grin. “You certainly are a lot more comfortable with this now.” Sherlock grinned back one hand wrapping around John’s and the other tracing along John’s jaw.

“Well, I’m a fast learner.” Sherlock said. 

“I’ll say.” John gave his hand a squeeze. “Tea?” 

“You’re offering me my own tea?”

“Well you sure as hell weren’t going to offer it to me and I’m thirsty.” Sherlock laughed, it felt like his chest was full of helium. “Come one now.” He dragged Sherlock by his hand into the kitchen and turned the kettle on to heat. He held his hand out to Sherlock and pulled him in, his hands coming to rest on Sherlock’s hips, thumbs caressing in small circles. 

“So, Mycroft take it well then?” John asked one hand bringing Sherlock’s knuckles to his lips. 

Sherlock’s brain seemed to scramble at the touch and it took him a moment to get everything working again especially as John continued brushing his lips along Sherlock’s knuckles. Sherlock shook his head slightly as if to clear it and John laughed his breath ghosting across Sherlock’s hands, distracting him again.

“If I had known your downfall was kisses I would have done this ages ago. If only for the look on your face.” John voice was amused but his eyes were soft and adoring it made Sherlock want to be wrapped up inside of him. It would be so warm and gentle inside John. A calming presence for Sherlock’s storm of thoughts. 

“What are you thinking about, love?” John asked softly. 

“It would be so nice to be inside of you.” John froze and Sherlock realizing what he said broke into laughter. John continued looking at him in something crossing the border between shock and confusion only making Sherlock’s laughter begin again. “Not like that.” He said between the remaining laughs. “Although I doubt I’d be opposed to that in the long run.” Sherlock said sobering up and John’s face flushed beet red. 

“Sherlock, jesus, you can’t just- I’m going to have a heart attack because of you.” John said with a slightly breathless note to his voice. Sherlock’s raised an eyebrow. 

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m amiable either way. Although I’d prefer to wait, given that I’ve only just kissed someone for the first time today.” Sherlock said and met John’s eye with a lopsided grin and soon both of them had dissolved into childish laughter. 

“This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.” John said in between laughs. “I didn’t even think I was bi until I met you and now we’re talking about sex.” 

“And you’re the one who kissed me.” Sherlock said leaning close again. John gave him a flash of a grin.

“I believe there was more than one party involved in that.” 

Sherlock gave a shrug in response. “Fair enough.” 

They filled their mugs with water and threw in the tea and headed up into Sherlock’s room, settling themselves against the bed’s headboard, each cradling his steaming cup. They sipped in a comfortable silence, John’s foot rubbing gently across the top of Sherlock’s. It was surprisingly domestic, the kind of thing Sherlock usually despised, and yet he felt a deep sense of contentment settle in his chest. 

“You know, if you hadn’t shown me the concentration I probably would have never realised I had feelings for you.” John said out of the blue. Sherlock turned toward him slightly to watch his face as he spoke. “When I saw all those paintings all I could think was that you really had to love someone to paint them the way you did me. Even then, though, I wasn’t sure if it was just you doing the maths or actually painting the way you felt but it sure as hell got me thinking.” He chuckled darkly. “Be happy you were oblivious of my little sexual identity crisis. It was not a pretty thing. I couldn’t deny though you were one of the most beautiful amazing people I had ever met. I was undoubtedly attracted to you but you never seemed interested.” John looked at him out of the corner of his eye and smiled shyly before looking down at his feet again. “I ended up convincing myself you didn’t feel the same. It wasn’t until lunch when I caught you- well, that I realised you felt the same way.” He laughed a little self consciously and then looked at Sherlock. “What were you thinking about earlier anyway?”

Sherlock felt his face flush, he could almost hear John’s smile. “Does that mean what I think it means, Sherlock Holmes? Were you fantasising about me?” John asked teasingly. Sherlock squirmed. “What did you imagine we did, hm?” 

Sherlock opened his mouth and then closed it again. John laughed. Fine, he thought, two can play at that game. He gave John a lopsided smirk with a confidence he didn’t feel. He took John’s cup from him and placed both his and John’s on the bedside table. “Well,” He began letting his voice slide lower and relishing John’s shiver in reaction, “I thought about pressing myself against you, pushing you against the table.” He lifted himself up, shifting to hold himself above John whose eyes had blown wide. He moved so he was on his hands on knees, hands just above John’s shoulders and knees in between John’s legs. “I thought about pressing my chest and hips against yours,” He leaned down and gave him a teasing kiss, a simple touch of lips. He didn’t move away, their lips brushing with every word. “I thought about kissing you until you squirmed. I thought about kissing and sucking down your neck.” He did just that, giving him one searing kiss on the lips before sliding his lips across John’s jaw and down his throat, pausing to suck on John’s pulse. John let out a keening groan, his hands scrambling to find something to hold on to, eventually settling on Sherlock’s hips which hovered tantalizingly above John’s own. Sherlock sucked the skin in between his teeth and worried it be for licking over the spot.   
“Sherlock!” John gasped as Sherlock slid lower, using a hand to pull down the neck of his shirt to kiss along John’s collarbone. He sucked and licked and nibbled until John was gasping making small circular motions with his hips. “Sherlock, please!” 

“What do you want, John?” Sherlock asked. He leaned down and tongued at one of John’s nipples through his shirt. John arched up into his touch, one hand finding the back of Sherlock’s head. 

“Oh, god.” John muttered as Sherlock’s hand rubbed across the other nipple. He pinched and John bucked up into him and fleeting there was contact between their straining erections. They both let out a groan at the contact. John pulled Sherlock down onto him, Sherlock settling in between John’s legs their clothed erections rubbing against each other in the single best sensation Sherlock had ever experienced.

“Oh my god.” Sherlock breathed and began moving his hips in small circular motions. Their breath hitched in unison. The friction was near painful on his cock, trapped as it was under denim but he felt the movement resonate deep in his abdomen sending sparks of pleasure up his spin and into his testicals. John dragged his head up and kissed him with a ferocity Sherlock had yet to experience. It was messy, teeth biting and tongues sliding against each other without much finesse. 

“There-” John started but interrupted himself with a groan when Sherlock ground down with a particularly hard thrust. “There is way too much clothing right now.” 

Sherlock huffed a laugh and then sat back resting his weight on his elbows, belly up. John shifted up into a sitting position, biting his lip as his cock brushed against Sherlock’s arse in the process. John’s eyes raked up and down Sherlock’s body, his eyes resting on the rather conspicuous bulge on the front of his trousers. 

“Jesus, Sherlock. You’re beautiful.” He shifted forward, over Sherlock, until he could press a soft kiss to his brow and then his lips. He shuffled himself forward, pressing   
Sherlock into the mattress and sitting astride his hips. Sherlock looked up at him and smiled softly, trailing his hands up John’s arms and resting them on his chest. “Oh, Sherlock.” John said softly, lifting Sherlock’s palm to his mouth and kissing it gently. 

He let go of Sherlock’s hand with a final kiss and reached down to the hem of his jumper and pulled it in a swift motion over his head. Sherlock let out an involuntary gasp and his hands, without his own permission, were immediately stroking along the lines of John’s stomach. 

With the rugby season over for the year John’s muscles had softened a bit but were still evident in the shape of his pectorals and the underlying resistance of his stomach. Sherlock’s mouth went dry as his fingers trailed up John’s side, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in their wake. The soft light from the window made John’s skin glow. The   
golden of his skin and milky brown of his nipples shinning under the sunlight. Sherlock swallowed audibly 

“You’re so beautiful, John. The colors of your skin…” Sherlock trailed off as he raked his fingers through the trail of light brown hair that lead from John’s stomach down past where his jeans obstructed Sherlock’s view. “All golds and yellows and orange with just a hint of blue.” He continued following the contours of John’s muscles back up to his neck. Sherlock looked up at John and smiled softly. 

John’s eyes were warm, happy, matching the small but bright smile on his face. He leaned down and gave Sherlock a soft kiss, thrilling in its innocence. When he pulled back he gave Sherlock a mischievous grin before kissing at his neck. 

“Alright your turn.” He murmured into Sherlock’s skin and then nimble fingers were undoing Sherlock’s button-down shirt, John kissing and licking at each patch of revealed skin. By the time John reached Sherlock’s navel, Sherlock’s chest was heaving, trying to get enough air and his jeans uncomfortably tight. John dipped his tongue quickly into Sherlock’s bellybutton earning a gasp from Sherlock. John leaned back to get a better look at Sherlock spread out beneath him, sitting down again and gasped at the same time as Sherlock groaned when Sherlock’s clothed erection rubbed up against John’s ass.

“Oh god.” John gasped and ground down on Sherlock cock, eliciting a cry from the other. Sherlock’s hands scrambled on John’s hips, his backing arching up and his hips grinding up against John's ass. 

"John, John you-" Sherlock started but broke out in a pained groan when John lifted himself out of reach of Sherlock. He slid down Sherlock's body, pausing briefly to suck at his nipples, making Sherlock whine and his hips to buck up in search of friction. He stopped and rested his head in the groove of Sherlock’s hip, breathing hot air over Sherlock’s erection. 

Sherlock felt as if he was about to explode, air whooshing out of his lungs and focus narrowed down to his painfully hard cock. John’s warm breath just barely reached his   
erection but it made it twitch and swell some more all the same. He groaned, his hips moving up in search of some friction. “Please, John.”

“What do you want, Sherlock?” John asked. Sherlock could feel every bit of skin on his cock rubbing slightly against the inside of his jeans with each desperate rotation up. His hands were clamped in the sheets of his bed. He wanted, he wanted John. Anything John would give.

“I don’t-” He stuttered. “I don’t know. Anything, everything. John, please.” If he had had blood to spare it would have rushed to his face at his inelegance but as it was the majority was of it was residing below his waist. John huffed a small laugh and then pinned Sherlock’s hips to the bed. He began nuzzling his way inward, until his face was pressed up against Sherlock’s clothed cock. 

“John.” Sherlock groaned, as John began nosing his way along the outline of his erection, giving just enough stimulation to drive Sherlock crazy and not give any relief.   
“Sherlock, you beautiful creature.” John breathed into Sherlock’s crotch, the hot air enveloping his cock and tempting Sherlock’s mind with the fantasy of John’s mouth wrapped around his penis.

Sherlock reached down and dragged John up for a long, searing kiss. He sneaked his hand downward and palmed at John’s own erection causing John to tilt back his head with a long groan. Sherlock shivered at the sound, so much better than any he had imagined. 

Quickly, Sherlock flipped John onto his back and settled himself between his legs, erections lining up with a shrill of pleasure down Sherlock’s spine. He began moving his hips, grinding himself down on John’s erection, the denim in between them amplifying every sensation to the point where it was pleasure tinged with just a whisper of pain. Their lips were touching but not kissing, just panting against each other’s mouths as they moved closer to completion. 

Sherlock was far from quite, small huffing sounds and deep goans interspersed with John’s name coming freely from his mouth without any conscious prompting on his part. Every slide of their bodies sung through his body, traveling up his spine and then down into his tesicals which felt so full, so tight. Sherlock was gasping, drowning in the sensations his and John’s bodies were supplying and he felt as if he were about fall off a ledge. 

“John. John I’m-” He interrupted himself with a long groan as their rhythm changes into long, hard circular grinds against each other.

“Yes. Yes, Sherlock- Hnng. Come for me.” John’s voice was breathless and it shook down Sherlock’s body. Sherlock’s hips stuttered and it felt as if he could feel every patch of skin on his cock, wet and slippery with precome, inside his jeans. Slit pressed up against and teased a bunch of fabric and glands relishing in the pressure John provided. Suddenly, Sherlock felt Johns thumb brushing against his nipple and then he pinched it, hard, sending Sherlock over the precipice. 

Sherlock came with something between a shout and a groan, his whole body shuddering with pleasure. John kept moving against him chasing his own release, which made Sherlock’s body shake with additional sensation. John’s body milked the come from him, squeezing it from him as John continued thrusting against him until, just a moment later, his back arched up from the bed and he was coming as well. 

Sherlock slumped against John, his head nuzzling in the curve of John’s neck as he waited for both their breathing to slow. His mind was dulled to a soft buzz, the majority of his focus on getting the air in an out of his lunges and listening to his and John’s hearts begin to slow. He nuzzled into John’s neck unintentionally making soft huffing noises which he strangely didn’t seem to be able to stop. John’s hands came up and brushed softly through his hair.

“Have I ever told you how much I love your hair?” John asked softly. Sherlock smiled and gave John as soft little kiss. 

“No but you have unconsciously. Do you know that when you're in my company you spend 40% of the time looking me in the eye, 15% staring at my throat, another 15% wanting to touch my hair, and 30% of the time looking at my lips?” 

John looked at him blankly for a moment and then began to chuckle softly, one hand coming round to rub against Sherlock’s bottom lip.

“How did you ever think for a moment I wasn’t interested in you? I was so obviously smitten.” Sherlock nuzzled into his hand, leaving small kisses on John’s palm.

“I will admit I have rather a blind eye when it comes to people’s feelings toward myself. I made the cardinal mistake, assuming without all the proper data and facts.” He held John’s hand in front of his own, studying it before kissing the tip of each finger softly. “I never once thought you’d be interested in a man, let alone me.” 

John sat up to give him a kiss but quickly drew back with a grimace. He looked down at a crotch with a sigh where a very obvious stain was setting in. 

“It there anyway I could borrow some clean clothes. These I have to say are quite uncomfortable.” 

Now that John pointed it out, Sherlock registered his own discomfort and got up out of his extremely rumpled bed with a frown. 

“That’s rather gross.” He said looking down at his own stained jeans. “Next time we’ll have to do it without pants.” He looked up at John with a grin, whose eyes had darkened considerably.

“That, I think, is an idea I would be more than happy to oblige.” 

“Good.”   
~*~


End file.
